Friday, September 25, 2015

Six of Crows Writing contest

To celebrate the publication of the new Leigh Bardugo series, let's have a writing contest!

Prize is this ARC in the amazing winged-box! Trust me, this is very cool, You want this!

The usual rules apply:

1. Write a story using 100 words or fewer.

2. Use these words in the story:

six
crow
spy
secret
weapon

3. You must use the whole word, but that whole word can be part of a larger word. The letters for the
prompt must appear in consecutive order. They cannot be backwards.
Thus: spy/spyglass is ok, but spy/soupy is not

4. Post the entry in the comment column of THIS blog post.

5. One entry per person. If you need a mulligan (a do-over) erase your entry and post again. It helps to work out your entry first, then post.

5. International entries are allowed, but prizes may vary for international addresses.

6. Titles count as part of the word count (you don't need a title)

7. Under no circumstances should you tweet anything about your particular entry to me. Example: "Hope you like my entry about Felix Buttonweezer!" This is grounds for disqualification.

8. It's ok to tweet about the contest generally.
Example: "I just entered the flash fiction contest on Janet's blog and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt"

“Ten...”“WEAPON is armed...”“Nine...”“SPYglass tracking systems active...”“Eight...”“Target acquired...”“Seven...”“Power nominal...”“SIX...”“Fuel pressure nominal...”“Five...”“CROW’s nest says GO...”“Four...”“SECRETary is a GO...” “Hey, anyone seen Felix?”“Three...”“Chief is a GO...”“He was at the weapon with you.”“Two...”“Launch clamps released...” “I thought he came back with you.”“One...”“Auto-launch initiated...”“Oh crap. ABORT ABORT ABORT!!!”

As dusk falls, so do the crows with the first hint of winter on their wings. I swear they get braver this time every year. Six of 'em swoop in to spy on me from the strawman's arms like they know I'm keeping secrets.

One tilts his head in my direction and mocks me with an eye full of muzzle flash and buckshot on his breath. He don't know it, but he's telling his own future.

I quietly settle myself not far from the campfire. Wispy smoke snakes, prayer-like, into autumn’s twilight sky. The woman and child, voices bubbling, stroll away with their string of six sunnies to the brightly lit fish cleaning house.

My last meal, over at Crow Wing Resort, had tasted a bit off. A young couple secreting pheromones, mating pheromones. But beggars can’t be choosers.

Siren.What? No.Crow, always watching.Spying on me in my white room with its peeling wallpaper, rosebuds secret under decades and cigarettes, canvas for thirty-six lipstick hashmarks.I wish that crow would shut up already. I wish it would fly down the chimney to me. I bet it would be delicious.Three days since they were last here. Three days without food. I drink from the filthy bathroom tap. I can’t make myself stop.That sound’s not a crow, it’s a car.The door opens. He comes in, weapon drawn. Killer or saviour, I don’t even care anymore.

The sixteenth day of a summer month, Lil wore red on her trip through the forest. The color served the same threat as the bright backs of poisonous animals: I'm dangerous, a weapon, mess with me and die.

The wolf mistook her red as a poppy's invitation.

Not a mistake he would make again, were he alive to make further mistakes.

Settling beside the too-still wolf, Lil constructed a crown of daisies. She stood with the wispy ring nestled atop her curls, leaving the blood splattered up her arms as further warning, and followed the secret path to Grandma's house.

The sixth crow took flight, whisking higher and higher into the sulfur-filled sky. With it was a secret. One that it would carry across invisible borders and walls alike, as if it were a spy masked by the blackness of the floating ash. Yet, even those trained in the arts of espionage can fall.

It was in this same moment in which the ebony bird lofted into the air, that it met its demise. A single arrow exploded from the shadows. Striking straight through its heart, the weapon sank the courier back to Earth, our hope plummeting with it.

One step at a time, that’s how you get through life.Two-step with a pretty girl.Skynyrd’s Gimme Three Steps appropriately plays for the drunken crowd.Four steps are what he gave me.Five steps are what I needed.Six steps to his assault combo.Seven steps I tumbled down.Eight steps until I find a weapon.Nine steps later he’s secreting blood.Ten steps in the booking process.Eleven steps from my cell, I spy the warden.Twelve steps, had I finished, would have kept me from that bar.Thirteen steps up the gallows. One step at a time.

The generals wanted the weapon to remain secret until its use. They dropped her six miles away, as the crow flies. The generals forgot about the Spine. A blind spy could see someone on that climb.

Hiding while climbing made her late and the battlefield was now a cemetery. The so-called Reavers had buried her friends and family, their enemies, with respect. The weapon and her thoughts weighed twice as much during her return.

The pompous generals who claimed to be ordained by god wanted to debrief immediately. She looked each in the eye and then used the weapon.

Ahhh...to be sixteen and in love. Jimmy and Sarah were alone at last. It had been a fun evening; pizza and movies, but he was hoping for more.They had an hour before her parents returned, it was plenty of time. Sarah excused herself to go freshen up. “Don’t be long.” Jimmy crowed at her as she disappeared up the stairs. He felt like a spy, secretly removing one of the six secret weapons in his wallet; he was prepared. As she came down the stairs his excitement grew, and then it happened, “Hi mom, you guys are home early.”

“Bogey on our six!” the pilot cried.I knew.Twitching, his hands flying from the throttle, he turned his head. “It’s a Death Crow! Right there, closing in! We’ll never escape it!”“Doesn’t matter.”“What? Don’t you get it? We’re dead now. Dead! They’re gonna take us down!”It didn’t really matter. We were dead anyway. A spy in enemy territory didn’t last, although the flashing fuel light and squawking alarm made that a moot point. We were going down. And as planned, the impact would smash open the secret weapon hidden on board. Perfect.

Secrets are their weapons, although they disguise it well. You would never imagine the six of them as a threat, sitting in the front pew dressed in their Sunday best. There’s Mary Jo -the pastor’s wife and leader of the group, Sarah- Mark’s (the choir director) fiancee, Beth, Jane, Erica, and newcomer Jill. Hiding behind half-hearted compliments with sugary inflections, they crow praises in your ear before striking, weaving in that little tidbit to make you blush and cower. The smiles become wicked once you realize. Wonder if they’ll still be smiling when they spy Pastor Todd kissing Mark.

Blood strings down from the dead girl's wrecked mouth, pools on the hardwood. Lampinelli glares out from behind her crowblack veil.

Me, I toss the bedroom. Nothing's secreted behind the Sixteen Candles poster. Nothing on the bed beneath a wispy white negligee that would've been a hell of a weapon if she'd lived to grow into it. But flung in a corner is what's left of the notebook, limp as a spinebroke dove.

I regret to inform you that I must resign my position as nanny for Wednesday and Pugsley.

In my sixty-two years, I’ve never encountered more ill-mannered children. I was willing to overlook the crispy immolated frog in my bag, Pugsley’s bioweapons experiment, and even the stains on my umbrella left by the odd secretions seeping from the nursery wall - your aged mother swears it’s not blood. I cannot, however, condone a prank that utilizes a genuine disembodied hand and crowbar. The shock nearly killed me.

Detective: It’s September 13, 2013, Friday, at 14:00 hours. I am Detective Tori Smith and with me is Jenna Kilburn. We’re in the Sixth Precinct interview room. This interview is being recorded. Now Jenna, you saw Elspeth two days ago, is that right?JK: [Shakes head]. He saw her. He caught her watching our secret, using her camera (inaudible) a weapon. So he took her to the crows. He took her and she screamed. [Pause] She shouldn’t have been spying.Detective: Who took her, Jenna? JK: Daddy.

Eleanor woke and went straight to the mirror. In the cold light of the tiled bathroom her complexion looked gray. Crow’s feet bracketed her eyes.

She had no weapons to hand so threw her expensive-but-useless eye gel at the reflection. The plastic tube bounced off and hit her in the face. It took the even more expensive jar of anti-aging cream to shatter the mirror.

Nick rolled over in bed. “Nightmare?” His voice was raspy from last night’s whiskey. It was no secret that Eleanor wasn’t a morning person.

Branwen began feeding the crows when she turned six. Soon after, they brought her secret gifts.

At first, meaningless trinkets: a dollar stamped with the face of Sacajawea; pondweed stalks; an iridescent button.

Then, what they knew she needed: jewelry to pawn when her stomach twisted in hunger; a pendant she thought lost forever, discarded by her father in a drunken rage; a delicate pen knife to keep by her bedside.

Finally, they gave her what she wanted: Branwen, her wispy hair transformed into wispy feathers, flew away and carried gifts to little girls who had not yet lost hope.

His threats, raspy in his throat, scrape the back of her neck, shove her stumbling into the alley. Sixteen windows crowd the walls around her. A white curtain, yellowed and creased like an old eyelid, twitches at an open window. Hope leaps in her heart. Someone will see. Someone will hear. Someone will help.

She screams, thrashes. Glass bottles roll, smash.

The window closes - quiet, final.

She weeps as his weapons tear her apart, spilling his seed, spilling her blood the way children spill secrets – indiscriminately, easily.

It was six a.m. and the Crow was in tall grass. Serena walked up the hill and handed him a latte.“You look like a spy, not an Indian scout.” “The re-enactment won’t start for hours”“They had i-Phones at Little Big Horn?”“Found this cool app. Have a look.”In the phone two men appeared atop the hill, wearing cavalry trousers and tall boots.“Hey!” she said. “One’s got a buckskin jacket, with long, blond hair. Isn’t that—““—Who else? Temporarily, it’s our little secret.”“And he’s locking lips?”“With the bugle boy. See? No Weapon.”

“The blackbirds are spying on me!” Jay said, brandishing his secret weapon—a homemade air cannon. “And they stole six of my prize pies. But no more. Duck!” He fired a poof of glitter into the air. You’re bedazzlin’ the crows?!” His wife clucked. “The chick next door will think you’re a ravin’ loon!” “Don’t care. The birds are robbin’ me blind.” “You gullible, old buzzard! The delivery boy did it. He flew the coop ’cause he was too chicken to tell ya. Now come inside, ya dodo.”She winked as she shut the door. No harm, no fowl.

It was six a.m. and the Crow was in tall grass. Serena walked up the hill and handed him a latte.“You look like a spy, not an Indian scout.” “The re-enactment won’t start for hours”“They had i-Phones at Little Big Horn?”“Found this cool app. Have a look.”In the phone two men appeared atop the hill, wearing cavalry trousers and tall boots.“Hey!” she said. “One’s got a buckskin jacket, with long, blond hair. Isn’t that—““—Who else? Temporarily, it’s our little secret.”“And he’s locking lips?”“With the bugle boy. See? No Weapon.”

Evan's Milan debut demanded an audacious wrap. She surveyed the SIX hundred beautiful bolts, fingered coarSE CRETonne and criSPY taffetas. No. A lithe weave, to compliment the runway backdrop. CambriC, ROWed loose? Too sheer.Bombazine? Old and dark suited Evan, but not her line.A kudhinda from ZimbabWE? A PONgee. Too ethnic.Ah! Between the shantung and tussar silks. A scarlet lampas.She draped selvages over the cutting table, covered the now-cold paunch, the lampas' blush a perfect match for Evan's sanguine gorget. Emotion took her. Machine washable and at one hundred fifty inches she'd only need five yards.

From his initial breath, he was bred to be a weaponeer. His daily life haunted his dreams. He was on the wrong side, and he hated it. The early morning crow of the rooster signaled his sixteenth birthday. He planned for this day for two years. His county would send him as a soldier to spy on the "enemy nation". It was his deepest secret: he would not go as a spy, he would go as a traitor.

Mrs. Dobbins entered the classroom a few minutes before the start of SIXth period. She picked up her wastebasket, and used a postcard advertising the Flinn Scientific Catalog to dust broken pencil pieces off her bookcaSE. “CRETins.” She knocked spitwads loose from the glass of her miCROWave. Her voice raSPY from skirmishes during the previous five classes, Mrs. Dobbins could only rely on a battle of wits to best her charges now. A battle for which they sadly had no WEAPONs.

The six crows in the sky meant RUIN WAS RISING and the DEMON IN THE WOODS of DUVA would soon be loosed. Their only protection was a secret weapon known as the “LITTLE KNIFE”, made from SHADOWS AND BONE. The spy BARDUGO stole it from the RAVKA clan during the great SIEGE and STORM of GRISHA.

Now JOOST was their only hope. He alone could wield the “LITTLE KNIFE” and harness the force it held inside. He prayed to the Gods for strength and wisdom as he slipped into the twilight.

The phone rang before dawn, a jangly weapon assaulting Sam’s drugged sleep. “You run an ad for the band Six-Six-Six?” said a raspy voice, conspiratorially, like a bad-kept secret. When he showed up his bass was crowned at the neck with the dead feathers of a raptor. And I recognized it, the sunburst stock, the outsized tuning pegs, even the coal-black strap. It was Eddie De Camp’s old bass, lost around the time Marion County’s answer to John Entwhistle dropped acid and got caught by a train in the middle of Oswego Trestle.

My six-shooter was stuffed in the sock drawer of my studio apartment when The Crow arrived. He showed me a message from Sandra, sandwiched between two sliver-sheets of sandalwood, scribbled in her shaky scrawl:

Kill Sam Spade.

"Who's Sam Spade?"

"Sandra's spouse," the spy said. "He's the sap selling secrets to the States. I think he's living south of Spain. Suit up. I'll take you."

"Sure. Just need some socks and shoes." I slid the drawer open, showed him my weapon. "Sweet of Sandra to sell me out."

Beginning when I was around six, I'd see him there. Outside my window. At night. Spying on me.

He'd whisper, "Sssh. Our secret." Then he'd climb in, cross my room, and go out my door. He probably left the same way. I'd be asleep by then, though.

One night, a bit after he came by, I heard a loud bang. Weapons fire? Probably just a dream, I mumbled. The next morning, my sister was gone. Dad said she'd be going to a "special school" for a while. I never saw the Scarecrow again.

It’s illegal to go through the estate before it’s appraised. A SIX-in-one lock pick shook in my sweaty hand. Inside. Her ghost at THE desk, wiSPY wires of hair dancing on the CROWn of her head. The lockpick worked on her private drawer. One hour. Imaginary SECRETs make invisible WEAPONs. Two hours. Stacks of false hopes. Ten minutes before grieving vultures swarm. A smeared certificate, a faded photo. The ghost’s face is stony. I leave the furniture and money. Next stop: the past. To track the missing pieces, and paste together a future.

She comes home all gaspy, stamping caked mud off grandma’s garden boots and calling to Jesus. Not that he’s watching her stuff clothes into a bag she swiped from someone’s trash can. Soon it, and the weapon, will be swimming at the bottom of an abandoned well.

Steam from the shower fogs up my glasses while she washes herself, and the shovel, clean. Then we watch cartoons until news of a sixth disappearance flashes across the screen.

I say prayers and fall asleep hoping she, like the crow who circles over old man Weaver’s corn field, will keep my secret.

My superpowers appeared on my sixth birthday. I'd crow about the injustice of having a Christmas Eve birthday later, but that year I had more pressing concerns, like spying on my adopted parents' room waiting for the light to go out. I planned to confirm the secret floating around school explaining why we never received expensive toy weapons we requested in our letters.

I tiptoed into the living room, unaware of the several truths I would soon learn. Santa smiled warmly like he expected me and said, "Well, your one kid whose parent actually does place presents under the tree."

I was six when my grandfather taught me about crows. “They spy on us”, he says and I listen, hanging on his every word. “You can hide things from people,” he smiles, “but the crow’s biggest weapon is that he knows all of our secrets.” I nod but I really don’t understand.

Now, as an old man, myself, I encounter a bedraggled crow staring down at me from a streetlamp, its eyes black and piercing. I think of all my secrets it surely knows but will never tell, and I think of my grandpa. Thank God crows can’t talk.

Six long years he's been on the run. But now he finally knows their secrets. They tried using him as a weapon all those years ago. A lone crow saved him just as the hit squad killed everyone he ever loved setting in motion their destruction and his salvation. It was time.

“Hello?” Detective John Jacobs said in a raspy voice talking into his archaic flip phone.

“Uncle?” a hesitant voice came through the crackle line.

Jacobs falls into his chair, eyes closed. “Shawn? Shawn is that you? Where are you? Talk to me Shawn.” Silence.

It was no contest despite my sixty pounds against his hundred and eighty, being nine years old against his twenty six, I knew what I’d seen through the spy-hole — him churning away in the dairy with my Mama.

Pa’s not to know, she made me promise. Didn’t mean I couldn’t share it with him, my half-brother. “I saw the two of you and I’ll tell if you don’t …”” I crowed at him from the hay-loft. “

Grabbing the six crow’s feet drying on the window ledge, Ana threw them in the small cauldron.

Her secret was out. Spying had gleaned the information the mistress used as a weapon. The word ‘witch’ echoed along the corridors. Ana stirred the bubbling broth, chanting softly. Only two words separated death from eternity.

She had been searching for centuries. She would have waited - he had already drunk eternity.

Spy, Secret Weapon, and Talisman were the alternate choices called out by the crowd before the fight, but he stood six foot tall with dark skin that glistened in the moonlight, and the first name won out.

He raised his arms to give thanks to the heavens. Graceful. Lithe. Beautiful. Duelling had been writ on his purpose since the day his mother birthed him.

They circled each other, bent over, thirsty for the clash, and then he ducked in and heaved his opponent backwards.

This has to be the most disgusting game I’ve ever played. The cards are sticky, and I spy a rat scuttling between tables. My opponent's filthy: pinching his six cards with grime-crusted fingers. He has a crow on one shoulder that I swear is dead. It twitches occasionally, but if it isn’t making that stench its owner has problems.

He talks and plays slow, but I see smarts in his steady gaze, an invaluable weapon. He slides one card down, wetting his lips. I play next, not interested in the outcome. I want his secrets, not his money.

They whisper about Old Abernathy’s cornfields. Secrets. Hushed stories crowded at the edges of his property, crouched in corners. Conspiracies. Crop circles in the sixties. Government helicopters spying in the seventies. Eighties. Nineties. The most recent intrigue, a rash of murders. Violent. Disturbing. They assume. The bodies haven’t been found. Most certainly because they’re buried in Old Abernathy’s cornfields. No one wants to look there. Even the cops. Old Abernathy likes the stories. Fear and secrets are better weapons against curious thrill-seekers than any security system. Old Abernathy grabs a shovel. Just because they’re conspiracies, doesn’t mean they aren’t true.

Someday, I will knock that crown from his pompous head. Will he beg for mercy in that old raspy voice? Will my blade cause crimson secretions from his wrinkled flesh? No. I am not a warrior. My weapon is my mind. And what destroys an unjust man more than a clever woman? I bet you a thousand bags of sixpences. Someday, I will rule and justice will prevail.

Foraging crows battled over the mangled carcass of a frozen coyote, casualty of an unfortunate incident on SR-68, five miles south of Sweetwater, Tennessee. An Army transport, camouflaged as a hog hauler, slid off the icy pavement propelling six top-secret deactivated military weapons down a bouldered ravine. Lt. Marcus Fulcher, torso wedged between a Patriot missile and the jagged metal remains of the dash, futilely radioed Molly Haas, counterintelligence spy, riding shotgun in the pig truck, now missing.

Sgt. Fulcher, chewed the last of his jerky, swiped at the crows, and waited for the coyote to thaw.

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I'm a literary agent in NYC. I specialize in crime fiction and narrative non-fiction (history and biography.) I'll be glad to receive a query letter from you; guidelines to help you decide if I'm looking for what you write are below.
There are several posts labelled "query pitfalls" and "annoy me" that may help you avoid some common mistakes when querying.